


another bridge will have to burn.

by gothzabini (girl412)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Banter, Clubbing, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Queer Themes, Soft Boys, ginny just being gay in the background, i promise this is very soft and tender, no angst just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 13:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19013422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/gothzabini
Summary: “What aretheydoing here?” he hisses to Ginny.“Same as you and me,” she says, sweet as honey. “Being gay.”or, Harry certainly didn't expect to see Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson at a queer Muggle club. He didn't see any of this coming, really.





	another bridge will have to burn.

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!!   
> title from "it's that talk again" by broken bells, which i listened to on repeat while spinning this yarn out, haha. ( _another chance for me to learn / another bridge will have to burn / it's not about an eye for an eye / because the normal rules, they don't apply_ \-----> drarry mood or what? ) 
> 
> it's been almost an year since i wrote any drarry so! i'm understandably nervous about posting this. that said, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it <3

“We’re here to unwind,” Ginny tells him. She’s wearing her fishnets and that silver jacket that looks like aluminium that Luna got her. Only Ginny can make her mid-30s look so effortless. Harry looks at her with soft admiration, and she nudges his shoulder not-so-gently. 

“You need to _pull_ ,” she says, laughter in her voice. He gives her the finger, and she attempts to trip him down the stairs. 

Harry’s wearing things Luna got him as well, which might be incriminating in any other context, but they’re at a queer muggle club after all. The bangles on his wrist make him feel unbalanced, but the soft sky blue of his cotton t-shirt and the deep forest green of his jeans make him feel as if he is exactly the person he needs to be. 

“Andy’s got our kids,” Ginny points out, propelling Harry over to where the music’s loudest, “and Teddy’s with them, you know all our kids think he’s the best thing since sliced bread.” 

Harry hums in agreement, before making a choked noise. He can see, clear as daylight, in the opposite side of the club: Malfoy and Parkinson. 

“What are _they_ doing here?” he hisses to Ginny. 

“Same as you and me,” she says, sweet as honey. “Being gay.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow, because _really._ They’re there looking like they’ve been cut out of a fashion catalogue as usual. Malfoy all pointy edges, his expression inscrutable, his shirt with a floral pattern that somehow looks dignified. Harry thinks that it’s just Malfoy who can pull this off, that if he were wearing the same shirt he would look like failed boho chic. This vocabulary is probably a testament to how much time he is spending with Ginny.

To top it off, Malfoy’s wearing skinny jeans that make his legs look even longer, as if he’s on stilts. Parkinson sees him watching, and she winks at him, leaning towards Malfoy. Harry thinks she’s going to tell him, but she does something worse – she deftly undoes the top three buttons on his shirt, giving Harry a clear view of Malfoy’s chest. Harry swallows audibly. 

Ginny smirks. Parkinson’s wearing a short black little dress with fishnets, a big green jacket on her slender frame – the jacket longer than her dress. Harry wonders how she could be comfortable wearing something that warm indoors, but he supposes that for Pansy Parkinson, comfort is less important than the aesthetic. Judging by the gleam in Ginny’s eyes though, it’s apparent she appreciates this. 

It’s not that Harry doesn’t see the appeal. He’s certainly had thoughts about Parkinson, with her grace and her laughter that’s too loud for small rooms, her pug nose somehow adding to her elegance in a way that it couldn’t possibly have done when they were all at school. Still, in that moment, he can’t take his eyes off Malfoy. 

Malfoy, who’s walking over to the DJ, and holy fuck, are those high heels he’s wearing? Harry peers over and notices that _they are_ , and the shock of it feels like electricity running through his spine. He’s vaguely aware of Ginny laughing next to him.

“Oh, fuck off,” he says to her. Not the wisest move. 

Ginny shoves him with enough force that he nearly careens into Malfoy, but manages to stop himself in time. Unfortunately, Malfoy has now noticed him, and is watching him with an unreadable expression. He raises an eyebrow, as if wanting to ask a question but not bothering with the question itself, merely communicating the emotion behind it. 

Harry tries for a smile, but maybe it comes out as a grimace. Malfoy rolls his eyes, a _whatever_ if there ever was one. He says something to the DJ, who, as Harry suddenly realises, is –

“ _Zabini_?” he asks Ginny, who’s watching him, almost boredly. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Was waiting for you to catch on.” 

“Is that why they’re here?” Harry asks, but he doesn’t get much time to dwell on it, as something that sounds almost like a flute tune begins to play over the speakers. Perhaps it’s synth, he doesn’t know. 

As he listens to the melody, something folksy and unnerving about the bittersweetness of it, Malfoy walks up to him, puts a hand on his arm.

“Scared, Potter?” he asks, moving dangerously close to Harry. 

Two can play at that game, Harry recons. “What do you think, Malfoy?” he says, putting a hand on Malfoy’s hip. 

“I think,” Malfoy says, moving backwards but smoothly pulling Harry along with him, “you should call me Draco.” 

Harry stares at him for a minute, the question in his eyes, the smirk curling his mouth that seems surprisingly good-natured, the almost vulnerable way he’s holding his body, like an animal considering fleeing. 

“Only if you call me Harry,” he says, putting his other hand on Draco’s other hip. 

“Well then,” Draco says, his voice soft. “Come along.” 

“I’m too sober to dance,” Harry complains. 

“Pansy is getting some tequila,” Draco says. “Just dance with me sober, for one song. Please.” 

“Okay,” Harry huffs, waiting for Draco to put his hands on his shoulders. 

“This is so improper,” Draco says, but there’s no bitterness in it. If anything, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. He’s so different from the boy Harry went to school with. 

They sway together to the beat, before Draco gently begins to lead Harry in some sort of dance that is no doubt a pureblood wedding dance or something equally graceful. They glide together. Draco’s body is almost fluid in its movements, dynamic, pulling Harry along – Harry, who’s always stepped on the feet of literally every dance partner he’s had – with enough force to make him feel elegant by extension, enough gentleness that he feels as if tenderness is seeping in through his pores.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s lost Ginny, that he doesn’t know where Parkinson is. All that matters is the way his body is all tangled up with Draco’s, how even though they haven’t spoken for almost two decades he feels like he’s with an old friend. Draco, despite fleeing to France in the aftermath of the war, feels like he’s been there all along, in Harry’s life. 

It’s this sentiment that makes Harry press his forehead against Draco’s, their noses brushing. 

“Too sober for this,” Draco murmurs. 

“Scared, Malfoy?” Harry teases. 

“Terrified,” Draco whispers, but he’s the one who moves forward and connects their mouths. 

Harry isn’t sure how long they stand there, swaying to the music and snogging, but eventually, he hears someone clearing their throat.

Harry and Draco pull apart, and notice Parkinson standing beside them, holding three bottles of tequila in her arms. 

“Isn’t that overdoing it?” Harry asks.

She rolls her eyes. “Seriously, Potter. I have friends other than Draco, you know.” 

She pushes one bottle between them, and Harry watches as Draco takes the bottle as carefully as he would hold a newborn. She runs off with the other two bottles, possibly to Ginny. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case. 

“Well,” Draco says. “There’s a very nice balcony here. Want to go chug this when we’re slightly far away from the happy gays?” 

“I thought we were happy gays,” Harry says, as they walk to the balcony. 

“Your interview in the quibbler mentioned you were bi,” Draco points out. 

Harry’s flattered that he’s read it, but tries to keep his expression neutral. Judging by Draco’s smirk, he hasn’t been entirely successful.

“You know how I meant it,” Harry says.

“Yes, I believe that I do.” Draco looks more amused than anything. “Astoria – surely you know her? – talks about herself in the same way. She’s also very bisexual.”

“Your ex-wife, yeah?” Harry asks, and smiles when Draco nods. 

“Okay, here we go,” Draco says, removing the cork with his fingers and passing the bottle to Harry.

“How did you…?” 

“Wandless magic,” Draco says, winking. Harry finds this surprisingly charming, which he supposes signals the point of no return.

Harry takes a sip from the bottle, handing it back to Draco, who gulps unconcernedly. 

There’s sad music playing from inside. Harry exhales, long and tired, and presses his forehead to Draco’s shoulder.

“Alright, saviour man?” 

“Fucking dandy,” Harry says. “I just, I don’t know. Sad music makes me sad.” 

“I reckon a lot of things make you sad,” Draco says, and maybe he’s correct, but Harry doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. 

“Who plays breakup music on club night?” Harry asks, softly.

“Blaise Alexander Zabini, that’s who,” Draco says. “He’s got a great sense of irony, that man. Besides, everyone on that dance floor looks too smashed to be able to tell the difference.” 

Harry notes that this is true. 

He also remembers, with a startled sense of shock, that the song that had been playing when he and Draco had danced had not been a particularly happy one, either. 

“Yeah, now you get it,” Draco says, somehow understanding his expression. 

Harry turns to look at him – really look at him. His eyes are bright, from the alcohol no doubt, but also coherent and clear. There’s something soft in his expression, something gentle and cautious. His hair’s got bits of glitter in it that Harry hadn’t noticed earlier. His mouth looks red and raw from all their snogging earlier, presumably. He looks content, but he also looks beautiful, sitting there in the balcony, against the cityscape, backlit by London at night.

Harry puts a slightly shaky hand up against Draco’s face, pressing it against his cheek. His bangles make a soft clanging noise, like wind chimes. 

“Come home with me,” Draco says. 

The music’s changed now. Someone must’ve requested a change in genre, because Harry hears what is unmistakeably ‘C _all Me Maybe’._ The moment is ruined.

Except, Draco’s still here, and he’s still waiting for an answer. 

“Okay,” Harry says. He leans forward, kisses Draco’s forehead. “ _Okay._ ” 

 

Ginny can find her own way back home. His way back home is with Draco. 

**Author's Note:**

> ginny doesn't mind. in fact, i'm sure she's glad about the turn of events, haha.   
> hmu @ gothzabini on tumblr/twitter if you want to talk!   
> thanks for reading, hope u liked it <3 <3 <3


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